


You'll Be Okay.

by ughallydia



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Allydia - Freeform, Banshee Lydia Martin, Friendship, Ghost Allison, Mourning, i guess, idk im new to this what am i supposed to tag, set after s3e23
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-20
Updated: 2014-03-20
Packaged: 2018-01-16 10:05:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1343527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ughallydia/pseuds/ughallydia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nobody is coping well after Allison dies. But, amidst all the mourning and the tears, Lydia begins to notice voices.<br/>Or, more specifically, a voice.<br/>Or, exactly, the voice of Allison Argent.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You'll Be Okay.

**Author's Note:**

> Set after s3e23 [basically a huge 3B spoiler obviously]
> 
> This is my first work on here and my first Teen Wolf fic so please tell me what you think [kudos would also be so so lovely!]
> 
> Also if you can help me think of a better title that would be kinda good because the current one is just the title of the song by A Great Big World.

**You'll Be Okay. [Allydia]**

      Each one of the five unbearable nights following Allison’s death before her funeral, Lydia has vivid, terrifying nightmares. Only they’re not really nightmares, because they’re just replaying that terrible night. That’s what makes it even worse, the fact that when she wakes up reality is just as bad.

      Every night she wakes, bolting up right and glistening with a cold sweat as she screams her name.

       _Allison._

_Allison._

_Allison._

 

      The days are no better. They meet a couple of times: Scott, Stiles, Isaac and Lydia; once it was a brief encounter in the car park of the Argent’s apartment and a second time they muster the courage to venture inside it.

      Stiles is getting sicker and sicker. His entire body is constantly wracked with tremors and his usually pale skin has turned almost translucent. He can barely stand for more than a few minutes and spends the whole time in Allison’s apartment lying on her bed. But that’s brushed off by Lydia; her crippling grief is her only comprehendible thought that manages to consume her entirety.

      Isaac sits hunched over in the corner, curling his body in on itself as if he’s trying to take up as little space as possible. When he cries, it’s silent. His face contorts in a pain that looks physical as well as emotional. Lydia understands that: every waking moment since the life drained from her best friend’s body, she has felt a piercing pain in her stomach as if _she_ were the one being stabbed.

      Scott’s dealing with it worst of all.

      He passes most of the time pacing up and down Allison’s bedroom. He never falters, not even when Lydia finally snaps and screams at him to stop. He cries too, only his are heart-wrenching sobs that tear from deep inside of him and he makes no attempt to conceal them. Sometimes, Lydia catches him wringing his hands repetitively.

      “What the hell are you doing with your hands?” Stiles asks at last, his voice weak and sounding far from the old Stiles. At least it isn’t haunting and cold like the nogitsune Stiles who kept her captive and haunts her sleep.

      Scott takes a moment to reply, and when he does Lydia wishes he hadn't because it only brings on another flood of memories and emotions from that night. “I need- I need to clean them,” He mutters. “Her blood… I can _feel_ it on me. And I… I think I can smell it, too. But I’m not too sure; I don’t know if I can remember what she smells like anymore.” This brings on another round of sobs that shake his body as he finally stops pacing and grips onto her bed frame so tight that his knuckles go white.

 

      Her room is still so _her_. Everything about it looks just as it did, as though any minute she’ll just walk through the door and dump her school bag on the chair. But Lydia knows that she won’t, because she’s dead.

      Since Allison died, Lydia has noticed that people try to avoid saying that word – dead. She thinks it’s stupid. What’s the point in sugar coating something as horrific as this?

      She’s _dead_. She’s _dead_.

_Allison is_ _**dead** _ _._

 

      That’s when Lydia first hears it. Isaac has disappeared and Scott’s voice is mingling with Chris’ in another room. Stiles is still sprawled on Allison’s bed, drifting in and out of consciousness.

      Lydia is so caught up in her own thoughts, her own inner monologue bitterly reminding her that her best friend has been murdered that she barely hears it.

      At first, she doesn’t notice; her thoughts are so loud. But gradually, she tunes into it, the way she’d been training herself to before Allison died. It’s hard to decipher the words at first, because they’re only whispers and Lydia’s head hurts, but gradually she makes out what the voice is saying.

 _Lydia… Lydia… Lydia._ The voice is calling for her, she’s sure of it, but she doesn’t know why or what they want her to do and it’s so frustrating that she lashes out and swipes her arm across Allison’s desk, sending papers and books flying. This wakes Stiles; he groans and blinks a few times before slipping unconscious again. But Lydia doesn’t so much as glance his way. She’s too distracted by the thought that Allison will never use those books again; that she’ll never spend another day in Beacon Hills High School; that she won’t be by Lydia’s side as they graduate together. Despite herself, Lydia breaks down. Her hands desperately fist at the soft material of her dress as she wails for her best friend.

      She wishes they’d listened to her when she told them not to find her; that she could have warned them more, sent them back. But she can’t. Anything she does now is too little, too late.

      Lydia soon forgets about the voice as she notices, through tear streaked lashes, a collection of photos of the two of them tacked to Allison’s wall. Her heart aches with longing for her best friend, for the happiness she felt in those photos, for everything to just go back to how it was at the start.

 

      It isn’t until she’s pulling Allison’s bedroom door shut, not knowing if she’ll ever open it again, that she hears anything like that again. This time the voice is louder, more insistent. Again, it’s calling her name.

      “What do you want?” Lydia snaps. Or at least, she tries to snap, but her voice cracks part way through and ends up sounding as small and vulnerable as she feels.

      The voice carries on, overlapping itself and echoing around Lydia’s head. It’s achingly familiar and she feels frustrated at herself for not recognising it. Here she is, one of the smartest people in her school, and she can’t even figure out the owner of the voice _inside her own head_.

      Suddenly, the voice becomes a solitary sound again as it shouts her name.

      With a jolt, Lydia realises who the voice belongs to. _Allison_. But that can’t be right. It can’t be her. Allison is dead. Unless her capabilities as a banshee mean she can hear people who are dead, it’s happened before, like at the motel. But that was different, surely it’s not real, it’s not her. It must just be her brain struggling through the painful process of mourning or-

      “ _Lydia_.” An entirely different voice says her name and she jumps, coming eye to eye with a still distraught looking Chris Argent. “Lydia, are you okay?”

      She realises that she’s been leaning against the Allison’s doorframe for longer than what would be considered anywhere near normal. The boys have all already left, even Stiles who only walks at a snail's pace.

      “Yeah,” She replies, managing to at least partially recover her cool, collected voice as she smooths out invisible creases in her dress with her palms. “Sorry, I was just going. I’ll see you tomorrow, Mr Argent.” Chris responds with a small nod and then turns and trudges into his office.

       _Tomorrow_. Allison’s funeral. Lydia doesn’t want to think about it, because it makes everything feel so much more real.

 

      That night, Lydia dreams that she is trapped in the dimly lit corridor that she’d been held in by the nogitsune, the same one she was crouched in when she sensed Allison was about to die. Only this time she can hear her best friend calling for her, her voice escalating in volume and desperation until she’s wailing out her name. And Lydia keeps running, stumbling in her heels and twisting her ankle but forcing herself to carry on, only the corridor becomes infinite. The light at the end of it never gets closer, no matter how much distance she covers.

      She wakes up sobbing and screeching, Allison’s screams still echoing in her head.

 

      Today, the day of the funeral, Lydia doesn’t bother with makeup. Dark circles hang beneath her green eyes and her skin looks colourless, but she knows any attempt at makeup is pointless – days of wearing black tear streaks down her cheeks have taught her to know better.

      She stands in front of her wardrobe, faced with dozens of outfits. Her shaking fingers pick out two black dresses, both of which she bought on a shopping trip with Allison. Little did they know at the time that one of these dresses would be the outfit she wore to her funeral. The thought makes tears sting at the backs of her eyes and a lump form in her throat, but she forces them back.

      After almost twenty minutes in front of the mirror, most of that time spent staring aimlessly, Lydia shouts out in frustration.

      “I can’t even choose what dress to wear!” She exclaims, banging her hand against the wall. At first, she is met by nothing but silence. But then, Lydia hears a voice.

      This time the voice is louder and clearer than before and it definitely belongs to Allison. Lydia’s head whips from side to side, but of course she doesn’t see anything. What was she expecting? A semi-transparent floating image of her dead best friend in her bedroom?

      But the voice comes again, only this time it’s not only uttering the three syllables of Lydia’s name. “Lydia, can you hear me?”

      The sound sends a shiver down her spine. It’s eerie how realistic her desperate, grief-stricken mind can sound.

      “Can you hear me? Please, Lydia.” Allison says again and Lydia has to lean against the wall for support.

      “Allison?” She whispers, heart pounding.

      “Lydia, its me.” says Allison.

      “But… but you died.” Lydia stammers, losing her grip on the dresses and flinching as the hangers clattered to the floor. She sounds pathetic, but she doesn’t care.

      “I know; it’s – ah – complicated.” Allison explains hesitantly. “But I think it has something to do with the fact you’re a banshee and all. I’m not too good at this yet. It’s hard. But, did you hear me, before, when you were in my room?”

      Lydia just nods, too dumbstruck to say anything. Her eyes are still searching around her bedroom as if she’ll suddenly notice Allison standing there. After a few moments of silence, she realises this may be her last chance to have any form of communication with her friend.

      “Will you always be able to do this?”

      “I’m not sure, but I don’t think so. I’m sorry; at least I’m talking to you at the moment.” She can practically picture Allison shaking her head and smiling sadly. When she brings her quivering fingers to her cheeks she feels that they’re damp with salty tears.

      “Please don’t cry, Lydia.” Allison’s voice sounds pained and it only makes Lydia cry harder, her hunched shoulders shaking.

      “It’s just- I just want my best friend back. I want you to be alive, Allison. Why can’t you be alive, please? I’m so sorry. You died because of me. Scott told me what you said in your last moments. He said you mentioned me. Well, I am safe now. Thanks to you. You died for me and it’s _not fair_.” Lydia begins rambling, words toppling out of her mouth as she gasps for breath between her sobs.

      “No, Lydia, stop!” Allison says sharply, cutting Lydia short. “It isn’t fair but life isn’t fair. I died protecting my friends, following my code and in the arms of my first true love. I couldn’t ask for a better death.”

      “You’re _dead_ , Allison! How you can you be so positive?” Lydia shouts, and then falters. In the moments of silence that follow, Lydia hates herself for lashing out like that. “I’m sorry. Oh God, I miss you so much.”

      For a minute or so Allison’s voice disappears and she’s left in silence again, whimpering quietly.

      “I miss you too.” Allison says finally, her voice soft. “But it’s okay. I’m okay.”

      “I love you, Allison. You’re my best friend. You always will be, you know that?” Lydia whispers, her throat feels like it’s closing up. Her eyes drift to the photo of the two of them, taken when they went bowling with Jackson and Scott. She shakes her head, how could things be so different now? Out of those four, only three are still alive, only two remain in Beacon Hills.

      “I love you too, Lydia.” Allison replies slowly. The conversation stills for a moment as Lydia tries to picture where Allison is now, how she’s communicating with her. She’s about to ask, when Allison speaks again. “Listen, I don’t know if this will last or how it’s even working right now, but I don’t want to spend the whole time crying.” At this, Lydia sniffs and wipes her tears with the back of her hand. “But we’re still best friends. Surely we can at least try to be as normal as we can when I’m just a voice in your head. You know, do the kind of stuff we used to.”

      Lydia is confused because how can they act at all like before when they are literally having a conversation via her mind and from beyond the grave. When she hears Allison’s laugh she feels as though her whole body is lighter, like a weight she didn’t know she was bearing has been lifted. Allison always has that affect on Lydia, on everyone probably.

      “The dresses, silly!” Allison says and Lydia glances towards the long forgotten dresses strewn across her floor. Shakily, she crouches down and picks them up, holding them both out in front of her. “I remember buying these.” Allison mutters sadly. Lydia is threatened by another round of tears but she pushes them away. _Not now_.

      “Which… which do you think?” She asks tentatively. Everything still feels so surreal.

      “The one with the sleeves. Oh my gosh, you’re going to look beautiful.”

 

      Then, despite everything, the corners of Lydia’s lips twitch up into a smile. And even though she’s said it before, she suddenly feels a need to tell her again, “I love you, Allison. Thank you so much, for... for _everything_.”

 


End file.
